Angel of Death
by doritoFace1q
Summary: Megan Giry is a rising star and ballerina. However, everything familiar in her life is thrown out the window in a sudden twist of fate involving a deadly secret, hidden catacombs, and one mysterious, dark-haired boy. Filler for the time between Erik and Madame Giry meeting and the main story of the musical. Warning: murder and implied torture. Implied mild GiryxPhantom.
1. Prologue

Megan ran quickly, the hard cobblestone of the Paris streets pounding harshly against her feet. She winced as she stepped on a sharp stone. Behind her, the boy squeezed her hand reassuringly.

Ah, yes. The boy.

He held firm to her hand, not seeming to question, or even care where she was taking him. He didn't seem to be bothered that she, a girl whose name he didn't even know, a girl who he'd exchanged a total of zero words with, had taken him from his cage, and was now dragging him through the streets, streets he'd definitely never been on before. Well, she supposed that he didn't care where she brought him, as long as it was away from those awful gypsies.

She heard screaming behind her, and she stopped at the crossroads, looking around frantically. She had originally intended to bring him to the train station and help him leave the city, but she knew that that would be the first place that the people would check.

The boy double over, panting and coughing. Megan gasped for air as she looked around, glancing through the streets on all sides. "This way!" she gasped, grabbing his hand and running to the right.

Straight for the Opera House.

 _They'll never look for him there,_ she thought, stopping by the gutter and pulling on it. "Help me!" she gasped at the boy, who instantly ran forwards and helped her open the grate with ease. _The last place they'd expect him to be hiding is in the middle of the city_.

She slipped into the gutter, landing with a small 'oof'! She stood up, moving out of the way as the boy fell in after her. He stood up on his toes (he was a good inch and a half taller than her and was able to put his hands out of the low gutter with ease) and tugged the grate shut.

"Here," Megan whispered, inclining her head towards the tunnel that stretched on. He nodded and followed her, winding the twists and turns that Megan had known since she was a little girl.

She stopped by a huge, ornately decorated gutter grate and tugged it open. This one opened much easier than the first, without the help of the boy. She hopped off the low ledge into the tiny chapel in the basement of the Opera House.

The boy followed after her, stumbling a bit and bumping into her. Megan wrinkled her nose as some of the dirt on his bare torso rubbed off on her dress. _Those awful gypsies – what right did they have to treat him like this_?

The boy made to keep going, but Megan grabbed his hand. "It's okay," she said. "They won't follow us here." he didn't respond, and Megan furrowed her brow. " _Parle-tu français_?" she asked.

He nodded. "Alright," he said hesitantly, lightly removing his hand from Megan's. Megan started. His voice, thought muffled by the rough bag he wore over his head, was smooth and rich, melodious as the orchestra during a performance.

He gestured around. "What is this place?" he asked, nodding at the small shrine in the corner and Virgin Mary painting on the wall. "Some kind of church basement?"

Megan shook her head. "The chapel of the Opera House," she explained. "I normally use the gutter to get back quickly when I'm out too late."

"You're a singer?" he asked, looking up, sounding suddenly interested.

"Ballerina," she said, gesturing at her silken point shoes, now covered in dust and ripped by the stones on the street. "I'll have to get some new slippers," she sighed to herself.

"Sorry," the boy said, voice baring no traces of remorse. Megan blinked, surprised. _Wow, he's got really good hearing_.

"It's fine," she said. The boy nodded and fiddled slightly with the little monkey he had refused to let go of during the entire trip. He clinked the two tiny cymbals together absentmindedly, and Megan was struck with how purely beautiful it sounded.

"So, do we just stay here until the mob passes, or what?" he asked, sounding mildly impatient.

"I don't know," Megan admitted, looking at the candles flickering on the shrine. "Do you have any family you could go home too?"

The boy snorted. "Not likely," he looked at the Virgin Mary painting, appearing to be deep in thought (it was hard to tell with the bag on his head). "Do you have catacombs here?" he asked suddenly.

Megan started. "Uh, yeah – but nobody's been in them for years." she suddenly realized what the boy was implying. "You want to hide in the catacombs?"

"Live in them, actually," the boy said, stepping forwards and inspecting the painting, almost putting his eyes directly onto the wall. "Like you said, nobody's using them – I could make myself a nice little adobe down there."

Megan nodded weakly, struck by how boldly he spoke, as the boy pressed a brick, and the painting slid to the side, revealing a set of stairs that spiraled down, even deeper underground.

He was about to turn back, when he stopped. "What's your name?" he asked her.

"Megan," she said. "Megan Giry."

"Megan Giry," he said, nodding. "Pretty name. Thanks for getting me out of there." Megan felt like he might be smiling beneath the bag. "This won't be in vain – I'll repay you."

Megan didn't have time to respond as he began going down the steps. "What about you?" she burst out suddenly as the wall started to slide shut. "What's your name?"

He looked back. "Call me Erik," he said as the wall slammed shut.


	2. Chapter 1: Parler

The sound of the other girls in the dorm woke Megan up. She groaned, rolling over and covering her face with her pillow.

"Megan!" one of the other girls – she couldn't remember which one, they all looked the same once they put their hair up – poked her in the shoulder. "Get up, silly! Breakfast time!"

She sat up, rubbing her eyes and running a finger through her silky blond hair, undoing some tangles. The dormitory was almost empty, but the girls that were still in it were being louder than the gypsies last night, and that was saying something.

She gasped, fully awake. _The gypsies_! she thought, launching herself out of bed and quickly getting dressed. _Erik_!

She tugged her dirty, ragged toe shoes on, wincing at their state, and ran to peek out the window. She frowned. There was no angry mob outside – in fact, it didn't look like anybody but her, Erik, and the returning ballerinas had even been on the street last night. She settled back down with a sigh of relief. It appeared her plan had worked. She left the room, heading down the spiral staircase, feet pointed and elegant.

She entered the dining hall, walking in poised and balanced. _Just like any good ballerina should_ , she thought, sitting down at a table far from everybody else and reaching for a roll on the plate in the centre of the table.

"Megan," a sharp voice cracked through the air like a whip, and Megan winced. "What in _heaven_ has happened to your shoes?"

Megan steeled herself, turning around to see Louise Bernard, choreographer of the dancers standing behind her, arms crossed, ugly face twisted in a scowl. Megan bowed her head apologetically. "It happened at the circus last night, Madame Bernard," she lied. "I appear to have misstepped, and my shoes were damaged." giggles erupted around her.

Bernard waved her hand, and the laughter stopped. "They are detestable," she said, nose wrinkling. "Megan, you simply cannot dance with your shoes in this condition today."

"What?" Megan gasped. "But, Madame – "

"No excuses," the woman snapped, turning away and storming out of the dining hall. The volume in the room returned to normal, with a few occasional jeers and giggles directed in Megan's direction. She scowled, grabbing a roll and biting into it angrily. _Stupid woman_ , she thought resentfully.

xxx

Megan sat, legs crossed elegantly, on a bench in the wings, watching the other girl dancing. _I could do that leap so much better than her_ , she thought moodily as a girl hopped across the stage, flapping her arms ridiculously. She sighed, turning a roll she had taken from the dining hall around in her hand.

"Could you spare some of that?" Megan started, whirling around and nearly falling from the bench. A bag with eyeholes cut into it was peering at her from behind a nest of rope.

"Erik?" she whispered, turning around. "What are you –"

"Hungry," he replied, as if that answered everything. "Again, can you spare some?"

"Right," she said, handing the roll to him, he lifted his bag, nibbling at it, carefully holding it beneath the sack. Even so, Megan could still see the edge of a ruined lip. She winced away.

"So," she said, trying to make casual conversation. "How's your abode been going?"

"Wonderful, thank you," he finished off the roll and wiped his fingers on his drawstring pants, which, Megan now noticed, were significantly cleaner. His skin, too, had been scrubbed clean of the dirt and muck of the circus. "There's an underground river," he explained, seeing her looking. "Pretty shallow – I treated myself to a bath."

Megan smiled. "Was there a boat?" she asked teasingly.

"Yes, actually," Megan raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Pretty rotten, though." he added. Megan giggled, and his eyes glittered from within the bag. "I saw what happened earlier," he commented.

"Oh?" Megan asked. "What are you, a _voyeur_?"

"I was in the vents," Erik explained. "The catacombs go everywhere – I ended up on the roof and had no idea how I got there."

Megan laughed, and was about to answer, when there was a rustling of the curtain. Erik's eyes widened in the bag, and he vanished without a trace. Megan turned around and groaned inwardly as she saw another dancer peeking through the curtains. "Madame Bernard says it's lunchtime," she said. "Were you talking to someone?"

"Of course, not," Megan said haughtily, standing up and brushing her dress off.

"Oh," the girl frowned. "I thought I heard a man's voice." she shrugged and turned away.

Megan followed after her. "Must have been a ghost."

* * *

I am, once again, going to be trying out themed chapter titles, even though I said I was going to stop in _The Croaking Raven_ (Unthemed titles are just too messy and unorganized for my OCD to handle :I). The titles in _Angel of Death_ are all going to be words in French that all have something to do with the chapter – much easier than coming up with themed English chapters, especially since the Phantom of the Opera is supposed to be a _French_ story (an aspect everybody seems to overlook 9_9).

 _Parler_ , _en français_ , means 'to talk'.


	3. Chapter 2: Vol

Megan sat on the cold stone floor of the chapel, trying not to get startled by the candles as they flickered back and forth, pushed by some unseen wind. She shivered as a phantom breeze blew through the chamber, and she tugged her thin, woolen shawl around her, trying to block the cold to no avail.

She closed her eyes and sighed. _Why am I even down here_? she wondered resentfully. _Waiting for him to swoop out of nowhere and ask me how my day was_? she snorted. _Not likely_.

She hadn't seen Erik since the first day. Over the course of the next week, things had started going missing from around the Opera House; first, a host of medical bandages; second, a child's suit had vanished into thin air from a dressing room; next, a set of tools and spare parts had apparently grown legs and run off from backstage; finally, an entire box of gold and jewels had been carted off from the star's chamber, leaving a very angry actress on the stage manager's hands. Megan had a sneaking suspicion as to where all these missing items had gone.

However, nothing had happened since then. She scowled to herself as she heard the church bell toll midnight through the gutter. _Damnit, Megan_ , she thought to herself, burying her head in her arms. _He's probably already taken everything and left. Stole half the costume department, packed his things, and ran off, riding into the sunset, and forgotten all about_ –

"Looks chilly," a melodious voice danced through the chapel, interrupting her thoughts. She looked up, turning her head to see Erik standing behind her. Except. . . different?

Instead of just a pair of pants, he was wearing a suit of finest silk, with a traditional white shirt, pinned up with a simple golden brooch, and pants tailored to perfection. Over his shoulders was slung a velvety black cloak, linked with a red, tasseled thread. His midnight-black hair, once unruly and coated in dust, had been washed and smoothed out so that it shone in the faint candlelight like lustrous ebony, still messy, but in a way that made it look skillfully arranged rather than unkempt and uncared for. But the biggest change was his face.

The rough sack was gone – instead, the left of his face had been covered with medical gauze, winding around his head to attach it to his mangled flesh. The rest of his face was revealed, and Megan was struck by how different the two sides of his face were – the left, a broken monster, the right. . . well. . .

His skin was pale, but not so that he appeared unhealthy. His undamaged lips were curved in a slight smirk at Megan's astounded reaction, and a lock of hair was pulled carelessly behind a delicate ear. His eyes, once shrouded in shadow, were clear as day. Megan was surprised to see that his eyes were purple – actually purple, deep and dark as summer wine. They reflected the candlelight and gave Megan the illusion of flames dancing in his eyes.

"You're staring," he said, sounding amused. The corner of his mouth flicked up into a grin.

"Sorry," Megan scooted over. "It's just, well. . ." she waved her hand awkwardly.

"I know," he sat down next to her, stretching a leg out. "Did you honestly think I was going to be spending the rest of my life shirtless?"

Megan giggled. "I suppose not. Still, it is a bit of a shock to actually see your face." she watched him as he waggled his uncovered eyebrow at her. "I never knew that people could have purple eyes," she mused.

"Genetic mutation," he scratched his head mindlessly. "Same one that screwed up my face."

"I see," Megan pulled her legs to her chest, resting her cheek on her knees. "Well, I guess now I know where all the missing costumes went."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "They noticed?"

"Yeah," she laughed at his evident confusion. "They're saying that it's a fashionable ghost."

"A ghost, huh?" he grinned. "The spirit of the concert hall?"

"The specter of the orchestra," Megan giggled.

"The angel of music!" Erik pronounced jokingly, waving an arm exuberantly.

"The phantom of the opera!" Megan declared, laughing.

* * *

The inspiration for Erik's design in this fanfic came from the game _Opera Za no_ _Kaijin_ (Japanese for Phantom of the Opera), an otome, visual novel-type game inspired by Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera. The cover for this story (and my current profile picture) are from the game as well. There is a fan-made trailer of the game on YouTube that I definitely reccomend watching (especially since it combines songs from the musical :D) here: watch?v=6H4de-wN0l8

 _Vol_ , in French, means theft.


	4. Chapter 3: Troquer

Timeline update: it's been two years since Erik's come into the Opera House. More and more people have begun to notice the mysterious 'Opera ghost'. Now, he begins to take control.

* * *

"Excellent work, girls!" Madame Bernard's cheerful tone did not match the scowl on her face as the dancers all relaxed, sighing and chatting amongst themselves as they stretched out their sore muscles. Megan scowled to herself as she walked into the change room, slipping her elaborate costume off and tugging her hair out of its bun.

"Hey,"

Megan jumped, whirling around with a squeak, hands automatically flying up to her chest. "Erik!" she gasped, dropping her hands and crossing her arms furiously. "What the hell?"

"Oh, don't stop on my account," he grinned crookedly at her. She stuck her tongue out, tugging her dress on over her chemise. He chuckled, shaking his head. "It's been two years, Megan," he said, changing the subject. "And yet Louise Bernard is still just an old hag with minimal training and a few connections; how _has_ she kept her job?"

"God knows," Megan tied her hair up with a silky blue ribbon, tossing the plait over her shoulder. "By the way, how have things been going with you?" she asked. "I haven't seen you for almost two months; I was starting to get worried."

"I'm a big boy, Giry, I can take care of myself," Erik said drily. "And to answer your question, I've been busy."

"I know – an entire bed went missing yesterday." Megan turned around, eyebrow cocked. "A whole bed, Erik. I don't even _want_ to know how you got that into the tunnels."

Erik put his hands in the air, feigning defeat. "I have my ways."

"A _golden_ bed, no less. A golden swan bed!" Megan threw her hands into the air. "Subtlety, Erik! Do you know it?"

"I only take the best," Erik purred, leaning back on his chair.

"I'm serious, Erik," Megan said, putting her hands down. "People are seriously starting to get scared. Bernice claimed that she saw a 'tall, dark figure in a cloak and mask' watching us from behind the curtains yesterday. You need to lay low."

"What if I don't _want_ to lay low?" he snapped, and Megan started. He took a deep breath, seemingly composing himself. "I'm sorry," he said. "But, Megan, I'm serious – more serious than you. I don't want to hide. I want everyone to know that I'm here. And I want them to fear me."

"You can't be serious."

"I am."

The two stood, glaring at each other, until Erik closed his eyes with a sigh. "I need you to get me something," he said.

Megan raised her eyebrows. "Anything you need, you can most definitely get by yourself."

Erik's eye twitched, and Megan privately wondered whether aggravating him was a good idea. _I've seen him kill a man before, but that was just for self-defence. . . right_?

"How about this?" Erik suggested, forcefully swallowing. "You get me a few spare part – I don't care what they are, I can make it work with a few gears and screws – and I'll stay underground."

Megan sighed. "Fine, but –" she started as she heard the other girls' voices outside. She turned just as the door burst open and the other dancers poured in. When she turned back, Erik was gone.

xxx

"Machine parts!" Megan grumbled to herself, stomping through the streets of Paris. "He wants me to get him _machine parts_! Where am I supposed to find those?" she tugged open the door of a junk store and stormed in, scanning the shelves, a scowl on her face.

"Mademoiselle?" a gentle voice asked. Megan turned around to see a short, slightly hunchbacked old man standing behind her, smiling up at her pleasantly. "My, you are lovely, my dear!"

"Hello," she said, standing up straight. "Are you the owner of this. . . fine establishment?" she asked, nose wrinkling just a bit at the musty smell of the place.

The old man didn't look angry; rather, he looked amused, corners of his mouth turning upwards in amusement. "That, I am," he said. "Is there something in particular you are searching for?"

"Yes, actually," Megan glanced at some of the items piled up on shelves. "My friend asked me to pick up some spare parts for him while I was in town today. Would you happen to have anything of that nature?"

"Parts, eh?" the old man massaged his chin. "What kind of parts?"

"Um, I'm not sure," Megan scratched the back of her neck awkwardly. "He said gears, or some screws, would work."

"Ah," the old man nodded wisely, scurrying over behind the counter and digging underneath. "I have just the thing." he popped up again, holding a dusty box with a spiderweb laced over it. "That'll be five francs, mademoiselle."

Megan placed the money on the counter, swallowing a gag as she tucked the disgusting box under her shawl. _This better be worth it. Damn you, Erik_.

The door swung open just before she reached it, and she almost ran face-first into the chest of a tall, young man. "Oh, pardon me, mademoiselle," he nodded to her, stepping aside.

She nodded curtly back, barely sparing him a glance, as she trotted down the street, back to the Opera House.

* * *

*nods as if she knows what she's doing* So, he's getting demanding, now, eh? I wonder how that trait will develop. . . *tries to wink like she's hinting at something but just ends up looking stupid*

 _Troquer_ =barter


End file.
